


i think about him a lot as well

by diapason



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Alcohol, Angst, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Hopeful Ending, Multi, Wilbur Soot is Not Okay, Wilbur Soot-centric, YouTube, gratuitous references to the original texts, im sorry he's BI okay and you have to accept my truth, sexual awakening, until he finally is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28619706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diapason/pseuds/diapason
Summary: Or, five (but it's actually six whoops) times the main character from Wilbur's E-Girl trilogy of songs struggles with the way he loves, and one time he finally puts a name to it.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot/Original Character(s)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 83





	i think about him a lot as well

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GarnetsAndRoses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarnetsAndRoses/gifts).



> this is. a thing. that i wrote.
> 
> i don't put disclaimers on my work like at all but... pls don't tell wilbur i wrote this... im sorry i just wanted to project it's a pile of cliches and mediocre extended metaphors with absolutely no narrative coherence and you can tell i had no plan lmao don't subject him to this terrible analysis of the wilbur simp character
> 
> anyway i hope you enjoy (tw for alcohol and a non-consensual kiss plus other sexual themes PLUS internalised homo/biphobia)

He's nine years old and his next door neighbour Cam is the prettiest person he's ever seen in his life.

"Hello! Do you live there, then? What's your name?"

"Wilbur," he manages, feeling like his brain is full of stars and his stomach is full of meteors.

"That's a weird name," the older-looking boy comments neutrally.

"I was named after my granddad."

"Oh! Well, sorry for calling your granddad weird. I'm Cam."

"I know," he breathes. And then, because he realises that sounds creepy, "I heard your mum talking to my mum."

"Oh. That's alright, then. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too, Cam."

They spend the morning together while the new neighbours, Cam's parents, unpack around them.

"So what do you like?"

"I don't know. I like singing. I like whales. I like making people laugh, I think."

"Cool." He's clearly uninterested.

"What about you?"

"I play a lot of rugby! And I play football and I do golf with my dad sometimes and I like swimming, too. What sports do you do?"

Wilbur, currently fixated on a spot on the wall of Cam's new and empty bedroom where whoever lived here last has maybe stubbed a cigarette and burned it, doesn't look back at his new friend. "I don't… really play sports a lot. I like video games, too, but I only have a DS."

"Oh. Well, I don't really do video games. I mean, we have a Gamecube, but it's mainly my dad's."

"Right."

The conversation moves on to better topics into the afternoon.

"What school are you going to?"

"St Daniel's," Cam replies, looking like he's watching Wilbur's reaction to find out if that's a good choice or not.

"Alright. I guess you're going to be our rival, then, because Silvermere's better tham St Daniel's at everything and we always win!"

"Win what?"

Wilbur pauses. "I don't know. I just know St Daniel's is our rival school. I'm supposed to hate you, I think."

"Oh, well, I hope you don't," he laughs. Wilbur looks for stars in his eyes and can't spot any, but Cam's laugh is bright enough to rival the sun, so he doesn't care.

An important question is raised before they arrive in the evening.

"So, do you like any girls?"

Wilbur feels instantly interrogated. "Why do you ask?"

"I just want to know if there's anyone I should be looking out for. Swoop in and steal her while you're on a playdate, you know?"

And Cam is eleven, so maybe he shouldn't be joking about stealing the girls in Wilbur's class, but he's got to humour this beautiful boy. "No," he responds, keeping his tone lighthearted. "No girls at the minute. Keep to your St Daniel's lot."

"Oh, come on, wouldn't it be funny? Romeo and Juliet kind of thing?"

"I've never read it," he says honestly.

"Don't. Movie's terrible. Are you really telling me you don't have a crush on a girl?"

"Not at the minute, no."

Cam's expression darkens. "You're not…?"

"Not what?"

"A homo," he whispers.

"What? Like, gay?"

"That's just what my dad calls them. He wouldn't let me be your mate if you were."

Wilbur lets out a breath. "Well, lucky for you, I do like girls. Just nobody at the minute."

"Good," Cam mumbles, "good."

Wilbur's halfway telling the truth. He does like girls, he likes plenty of girls, he actually mostly hangs out with girls because the boys all think it's weird that he won't play sports.

But he does like somebody at the minute. He just can't tell Cam.

* * *

  
  
  


And then he's twelve, and they're taking a Sexual Education class, and somebody raises the issue of same-sex couples.

"You don't need to know about that," the teacher frowns, because of course she does. Section 28 has only been off the books for a couple of years, and the teaching body are still adjusting. Not that Wilbur's researched Section 28 - he just heard about it. On the radio. From a friend. At the library. All of the above and none.

"So you're just gonna let Will get AIDS, then, Miss?" giggles one of the bullies, and the whole class laughs along. Never mind how he literally HAD a girlfriend for a solid two weeks this past Christmas holidays.

(Never mind how Ellie-May called his house on January 2nd and told his mum she didn't want to date him any more because she'd get made fun of when they got back to school.)

"Oh, shush yourself, Jack," complains the teacher, and returns to her explanations, weighing up the pros and cons of contraception.

After the lesson comes more of the same.

"Oi, Will!" says Luke from the other form, calling across the quad with a group of his mates. "Have a good time in that Science lesson, eh? Learn proper bumming techniques?"

They're idiots, all of them are idiots. "I'm fucking straight, you arsehole."

"Yeah, fucking straight up the arsehole of another boy!" They all laugh and jeer and congratulate Luke on an epic burn, he's so smart and that, what a ledge.

Wilbur packs his lunch up and moves to eat it in the computer room, which is empty, as it always is, because somehow it's 2005 and people still haven't worked out the treasure trove of content that is the internet. Nobody comes in to interrupt him, and when he's done eating alone he boots up the computer, a massive Dell thing but not too far off modern technology, and logs in. The internet's there waiting for him. Lucky sod that he is, the technology team at this school have set it up on all ten computers, no restrictions, ready for him to play.

Internet forums will always be his home, he reckons, logging in and chatting with nobody about anything for the rest of the lunch hour.

The inclusion of an unfamiliar word in someone's forum signature stops him short - a woman, LadyKrystal994, has quoted Star Trek at him (not unusual) and followed it up with "I Am A Proud Bisexual!" This, of course, needs Yahoo searching.

And he finds out that it's what… well, it's where you… well, it's not normal. And he closes that tab as quickly as possible before anyone walks in and starts to get the wrong idea, think that _he's_ not normal. Gets lost in the forums again, scrolls straight past LadyKrystal's observations every time she pops back up.

Doesn't think about it again. Definitely doesn't think about it when he should be asleep. Definitely definitely doesn't cry.

Because he likes girls, and that's normal, so he's normal, and he's not like that.

* * *

  
  
  


He's fifteen years old and his new Chemistry partner Lily is the prettiest person he's ever seen in his life.

Cam doesn't talk to him much any more - they went to different primary schools and different secondary schools and the most they catch up is the infrequent days that Wilbur gets home early to catch him in the doorway and for them to have a quick chat while they both fumble for their keys. Cam's about to go to university, so last time they talked it was mainly about personal statements and work experience and other things Wilbur won't have to worry about until he's also seventeen, so he put it out of his mind.

Not that he had to, because his new partner Lily has just chucked everything else out along with it to sprawl out luxuriously across the blank slate of his thoughts.

"Hi! Will, right? I think we did choir together in Year Eight?"

"Yeah." She's got lovely eyes. You could almost see stars in them if you tried, but maybe that's just the blinding of his own.

She's all he can focus on for an hour on a Thursday morning every week, probably utterly tanking his final GCSE grade for Chemistry, but it doesn't matter because he's taking Media now and that's all he really needs to pass. Lily doesn't do Media, but she _does_ express an interest in computers - good, because it's 2009 and it's about bloody time _somebody_ that Wilbur knows did.

She exchanges first numbers and then IP addresses with him so they can set up an IRC connection and then a voice chat. Aside from Monday nights (that's when his mum calls his grandparents), he's got her all to himself the moment they both get home from school - and oh, what a glorious feeling it is, to hold the monopoly over someone like this. To know that you're the one she falls half-asleep on call with, the one who taught her how to make a cute face with a handful of Japanese characters and holding down Alt with the right combination of num-lock inputs.

"You know, I really thought you'd ask me out by now," Lily mutters into her microphone late at night on a Tuesday.

"What?"

"I feel like you're the only boy I know who hasn't tried to pull me."

Wilbur hesitates. "I mean… I like our friendship. It's been nice talking to you."

"Yeah, but you've also got a massive crush on me, right?"

"Why do you think that?"

"Every time I come online you're already there to say hi. Bit obsessed, not going to lie, but… I like your attention."

"Oh." A habit picked up from Cam, who started every other sentence with an 'oh' and a 'well'.

"So do you want to go out with me or not?"

Wilbur smiles. "I'd marry you if you asked."

"Not so fast, mate, we're not even legal."

"Yes," he grins, elated, "yes, I want to go out with you."

"So we can go out. I've got to go to bed now, okay? I'll see you at school."

And that's how Wilbur floats into school on cloud nine the next day, running on three hours of sleep and impossibly happy about it, tracing hearts in the margins of his textbooks. Luke makes another gay joke - when will he not? - but it's not a problem, because not only does he like girls, he's got an honest-to-god girlfriend.

They end up spending most of their time online together, chatting as they browse the internet, perusing fansites and communities. There's a site called YouTube that she's known about for a good year and which Wilbur is introduced to probably embarrassingly late, a site full of short and funny clips that people all across the world have filmed and created and uploaded for people like him, people like _them_ to watch and enjoy. She's got a "v-log" channel where she video blogs her home and school life on Monday nights. Wilbur makes an account (in his own name, because the username's not taken) and subscribes.

"I could edit for you if you wanted," he offers.

"Nah," she shoots him down, matching his rhythm, "Windows Movie Maker is fine by me."

"Aren't you planning to make something of these?"

"Not really. Why? Do you think I could make a career off of YouTube videos?"

"I mean, there's plenty of room for ad-space, right? They could get away with paying you for it if enough people were watching."

"That's true. People do love a good British accent, it seems like."

They discuss the logistics of an internet career for a little while, both aware that it's probably a pipe dream to make money off the internet, but both holding on to hope that when they're older it will be a possibility. That would be living the dream, right? A career from your bedroom?

Wilbur's girlfriend is beautiful, and sometimes it seems like if he catches her eye in the right light there are stars. She's not the sun, though, she'll never quite match up to that. She hangs the moon in his chest cavity. Never mind the shortness of breath, the tightness in his lungs it leaves to have her take up so much space inside him.

(Never mind the nights he spent wondering how much she really liked him for himself, and how much of it, like she'd said so many months ago, was his attention.)

  
  


* * *

He's eighteen and six weeks, and after only a month or so of the single life, Lily's got a new boyfriend.

Max, his name is - tall, but not as tall as Wilbur; hair's flatter, like he doesn't wash it; and he plays rugby.

He makes Wilbur sick.

"Nice to meet you, mate!"

"Yeah." They're at a party in someone's parents' house, a freshers affair some kid in the year below put together that the Year 13s are crashing hardcore, because unlike the freshers they can actually buy the good stuff. He's walked in on Lily absolutely giving herself away to this guy in the middle of the kitchen and they've broken apart so that Wilbur can be introduced.

"You're Will, right?"

"Yep."

"Same Will you were going out with, babe?"

"The very same." She's fucking wasted already. Giggling like nothing else, and she told him once the reason she's always fidgeting when she's drunk is that her skin gets sensitive and she likes to feel the fabric, so she's doing that now. Why the fuck does he still remember that?

"Looks like a wanker."

"He's not, promise! No more of a wanker than I am." She tries to wink at him and it fails spectacularly. It doesn't matter to Max - he's back in for round two. Wilbur leaves without a word.

This party is shit, but the alcohol is unattended, and Wilbur wastes no time getting to work on depleting this innocent Year 12's entire supply. Drinking has become one of his favourite pastimes since he turned sixteen and legal and _cool,_ he supposes, as he is now a person people invite to parties. Never mind the fact he's the only one he knows with a September birthday, the only one who was eighteen when nobody else could buy, and the one who always had to go in when everyone else chickened out with their fakes.

(Never mind the way they hide their phones from him, whisper and conceal smiles, or the way nobody listens when he talks at motives.)

Okay, he's definitely getting drunk now. See, the fun thing about this is that usually he drinks _alone!_ Well, maybe that's not funny, but it is to Wilbur and it is tonight. Tonight there are people to talk to and people to make nice with and people to exchange Facebooks with who he'll friend and never speak to again but always like their birthday posts, because it's 2012 and Facebook's gonna live forever. No. People to make lasting connections with, because he's got to think about this right, because if Lily is off fucking some other -

"Hey, man."

And who might this be?

"It's me. Matteo, from your Film class. You remember?"

Oh, yeah, Matteo! Matteo's a real one. Nice to see him.

"You getting on alright there, man?"

Perfect. Lovely. Couldn't be finer.

"Just looked like you weren't talking to anyone - if you get roofied, it's not on me, yeah?"

Who'd wanna roofie Wilbur, though?

"I don't know. I don't see why they wouldn't, if they happened to swing that way. You're a good-looking guy."

Really?

(Wait.

He can't quite articulate the feeling this admission elicits in him. Disgust, but only on the surface, and maybe it's teaming with the ever-latent urge to throw up now he's been drinking for this long. Underneath it… what is that? Heat? It sends chills down his legs, for some reason.)

You're not gay, are you?

"You got a problem with that?"

Maybe.

"Hey, I thought you were cool. If you're gonna be a fuckin' homophobe you can stay drinking alone."

But he's not - he never - he didn't -

(God, words are so _hard_ when he's this blasted!)

"If you're… working through whatever, sure, have your hangups, but I'm not gonna sit around and work through them with you. I don't know you."

Wait.

Stay.

(And he does. He pulls out a barstool beside where Wilbur's been leaning on the kitchen island. Have there been chairs here this whole time?)

Do you know about all that?

"Know about…? I said, if you're working through your hangups, you can -"

Wilbur's not working through anything. Wilbur never works things out.

"Maybe you should get on that."

Or maybe he can do this -

(never mind the softness, never mind the heat, never mind the longing and it feels so rightwrongperfectstupidbeautiful he'll cry or be sick, never mind the tears that are actually forming, never mind the -)

the way he's left alone on a barstool, drunk out of his mind and so fucking lonely after a single golden moment of connection.

He throws up in the garden, passes out, and remembers none of it when he's kicked out at five the next morning.

He's not sure what's wrong with him, but he's constantly scared, pissed off, and lonely after that.

* * *

  
  
  


He's twenty and this time the boyfriend's name is Dominic. Good luck they're meeting sober.

"He's my manager," Lily boasts, "I've gone platinum thanks to him."

"Platinum?" He didn't think that was a YouTube possibility.

"Oh, you know what I mean! Everyone's seen me."

"We're thinking of branching out," Dominic speaks over her, smooth and a little northern, "I'm pretty sure livestreaming's gonna be big pretty soon."

"Is that right."

"I mean, if people like my videos, why wouldn't they tune in live to see one?"

He zones out of the rest of the conversation. Not enough that she'd insisted on meeting him for coffee the one day he came home, of course she had to bring her manager boyfriend. Probably using sex for a better cut of the ad money. Youtube's getting big like that, everybody writing books that preteens in their thousands are falling over each other to buy, and Lily among the stars that are succeeding. Wilbur's meant to be happy for her. A perfect career - living the dream - and a perfect boyfriend.

But again, he just makes Wilbur sick.

Next time he's thinking clearly it's at home, when he looks down from his screen at his hands and knows he's just blocked her on every platform she's got. Denial gives way to anger and he hates her, he fucking hates her for leaving him behind to be rich and famous when they were supposed to do this together. What's he meant to do now? Go to uni, get a degree, work nine to five like the rest of these bastard people in an uncaring world? Fuck her.

Fuck her.

(A long time ago, maybe the sixth or seventh time they broke up and got back together, a joke with his dad in the kitchen. "I'm considering swearing women off altogether." And his dad had laughed, because of course that wasn't really an option, not for Wilbur, not for his son. He'd laughed too. He could never leave women behind, because what would he have then?)

He closes the tabs and stares at a blank desktop with burning, empty hate like a Molotov cocktail that's filled with gas.

This is not the end.

* * *

  
  
  


He's twenty-three, and he doesn't even know the boyfriend's name this time, but anger has given way to bargaining and he's sure with enough money he can win her back. He has to. Enough donations, enough subscriptions, enough plane tickets to Orlando where he sits three rows behind her and the nameless man, watching, stalking.

Because if he can't have her back, what else can he have?

Long story short, he's escorted off the premises at Disney World and returns to his hotel in broken tearlessness.

She's texted him. First time in two years.

_what the fuck_

Yeah, he laughs bitterly, she's right.

_literally whats wrong with you will_

_is this some kind of sick game to you_

_cant you just leave me in peace_

_why do you have to do this_

He has to because - and he was never the writer, but because -

_You're all I have_

_well stop fucking having me then_

_its been years since we were together_

_get over it_

_Your new boyfriend is an arsehole_

_you dont know anything about owen_

_I heard enough_

_well can you stop fucking listening_

_you creep_

_you fucking maniac i never want to see you again_

_I'm the only reason you can pay your bills I think I deserve this at least_

_stop contacting me will_

_I need you_

_im blocking this number_

But she can't stop him from watching his livestreams. And she can't stop him from paying her way. One more month's Patreon money, and she'll change her mind. He's sure of that. He has to be.

What else is there?

His mind, unbidden, flashes back to Dominic. And Max and Owen and Harry and Cole and Patrick and every other man she's posted pictures with since he unblocked her in shame and desperation one fucking lonely night a little while ago. All of them made him feel sick to his stomach in exactly the same way - all of them turn him to think about now. Normal guys, attractive guys, but nothing like what he was for her. What did they have that he's not got? Do they fuck better? Do they handle their drinks better, do they smoke better, do they pay better? Nobody pays like Wilbur. This shitty hotel room miles out of central Orlando is proof enough that he's spent plenty of money on her happiness, and he just -

He's fucking _earned_ their happy ending, alright?

It wasn't meant to be like this, he sobs. It was supposed to be her and him and the internet, taking on the world. Instead it's her and her new fucking boyfriend, and Wilbur alone in a hotel in another country, crying and so very incomplete.

But he needs Lily. If he doesn't have her, what does he have?

What can he have?

No. There's nothing else to be had. Her and her stupid anime profile picture and her eyes that used to hold stars but now only hold hatred molten as the earth's core.

(Never mind that, and certainly never mind the cold and empty cast it leaves when he's not pouring all his attention into her.)

Fuck her.

He needs her.

  
  


* * *

  
  


He's twenty-six and the boyfriend's name is Jared and he's crying in an office toilet stall and for some reason the image of the guy shirtless just _won't leave his fucking head._

He's still paying for everything she does. Half his income monthly, he's calculated over and over again on Excel spreadsheets that are supposed to contain company data, although it's such simple maths he could definitely do it in his head. There's something grounding about clicking on a keyboard, loud typing keeping him aware that he's here and now and not with her because she's got ANOTHER boyfriend and this one is all over her Instagram, she posts about him all the time, and he could be a fucking _model_ judging by their Ibiza photos from this past New Year's.

They've reconnected, slowly but surely, since the scene he made a few years ago. She unblocked his number and he was determined to prove that this was the right choice - so he remains quiet and respectful and doesn't show the anger and the desperation and the sadness and the sickness that are constantly bubbling underneath him every time she explains how she's getting on so _well_ with this one, maybe it's meant to be!

Disgusting.

And it's supposed to be disgusting because the only place he's ever seen himself meant to be is at her side and in her arms, and all he's getting is a fancy pixelated icon in her Twitch chat - but maybe there's something else that's turning his stomach.

Case in point now. Jared. Nude. All over his brain and he won't fucking _leave._

Nobody comes in here over lunch - people always take every chance they can get to take a few quick minutes off of work when they need a piss - so he's confidently alone to have this mental breakdown. His hands are starting to prune with the tears he's constantly wiping away, and isn't that just so fucking stupid and pathetic that it makes him want to punch a hole through another wall like he hasn't done since he was a teenager and all he cared about was video games and her? Stupid and pathetic. Who does that remind you of.

Why won't Jared get out of his thoughts? He's tried everything his distressed brain can come up with, which wasn't a lot, and everything just made him want to cry harder. He feels so fucking stupid and abnormal and _weird_ to be in a state like this at _work_ where people could _see_ but it's not like these tears are going away and neither is fucking Jared, apparently.

Fucking Jared.

No! We're not thinking about fucking Jared! That's _worse!_

He's so cold and alone in the office toilets and there's nobody to make it better. There's just him and the naked Jared of his mind and his overworked tear ducts turning his eyes red and his skin raw.

Fuck. Maybe he is gay.

Not gay. Lily's meant too much to him for too long for him to just be gay like that.

But if not gay, then what?

(Never mind the other option from an empty computer room so many years ago yelling out the answer loud and proud and clear. Never mind the drunken nights he's forgotten, and well should he, the shitty way he's acted to too many innocent men. Slurs and shouts and sexual assault. He's lucky he never went as far as he did that first time again. Making out with a stranger, drunk out of his mind on a barstool in a house he didn't own.)

Naked Jared has the decency to put some pants on, at least, when he thinks about how bad he's been.

He's been such a shit person his entire life, actually, and it's probably the reason he's here instead of living the dream with her - or being her and having Jared - he probably deserves the lot he's been given. (Jared adds a shirt. Unbuttoned, but a shirt.)

Bargaining's slipped away in favour of depression some time in the last few years. Maybe when he'd got what he'd wanted and it wasn't fucking enough.

The depression he claimed to have as a teenager was nothing compared to the real thing, the real, horrible, clamouring emptiness that everyday life consumes him with because it's not enough, it will never be enough, _she_ will never be enough, no matter how much money he sends her.

The stars have all burnt out. Black dwarves dot his pupils in reddened eyes. Burning embers of the love he used to hold, a facsimile of what it was when he was young and hopeful. The supernova's come and gone and all that's left is a steady direct debit draining funds to chase the high he's… never going to get again.

Of course fucking _Jared's_ the reason he finally puts a name to the incompleteness.

And it's hard, of course, to rewire his brain. To put "bisexual" into new context, to make it something he can _be_ instead of something wrong and something to avert his eyes from.

But staring the label down, on a blank office toilet wall in the middle of his lunch break? Refusing to break eye contact with his fears until they wilt under the pressure and he finds the strength to stand and wash his face and go back to his desk?

It feels a little bit like the beginnings of a nebula.

He's twenty-six and maybe finally starting to define himself by more than what he does online and what he pays for and what he's always been told is right and normal.

If he could change a single thing, he'd make it then and not now - but he can't. He can only work with what he's got.

And what he's got is a massive fucking crush on a _taken_ man, _god damn it._

(Acceptance.)

How on earth can he be saved from this one?

Bring to mind the wrongs and the rights of his past, the crimes and the tortures he's suffered through, deservedly. Bring to mind the importance of turning himself into someone good, someone lovable. Someone who's not been ruined and isn't a threat to himself, isn't beyond reproach.

Make it better, slowly.

Maybe he can turn this into a song or three.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah uh there you go
> 
> [the writers' block discord](https://discord.gg/w9CwSK26mm)  
> tell em ilex sent you


End file.
